It had large windows facing the view of the ocean, now clogged by vegetation, and at least one door leading to a path that ran to the stairs. One that we could use for a mechanical breach. The hard part was the damn building just spilled down the slope, not giving me any indication of how many levels it had or how many rooms. If we wanted to rescue Nicole, we needed to know more.
I slowed a bit, evening my pace while using a GoPro on my belt to record everything I saw. Dunkin said, “Is that it? Is that the place?”
We were alone on the trail, but I still glared at him, saying, “Yeah, that’s it. Shut up and keep moving.”
He said, “What about my pen-test? Let me help.”
And I pulled up short, remembering why he was here. “Can you do something here?”
He looked left and right, like he was about to pick someone’s pocket, and said, “I can try.”
“Jesus. You’re killing me. Do it. We have probably a minute before someone shows up.”
He rotated his backpack around and pulled out what looked like a mini-iPad with two antennas. He booted it up, saying, “This will take a second.”
I saw a ton of information scrolling down his screen, all of it a foreign language to me. I waited, growing impatient, then said, “Well?”
“I’m in. It’s a rental. Stand by. There are a ton of things on this network. They don’t have tight security because they have to pass the access from one guy to the next.”
“And?”
For the first time, Dunkin looked at me with confidence, saying, “And they have a Roomba.”
Chapter 43
Paul Kao watched the unknown subject he called Fly Boy park his car in a makeshift garage, the attendant waving him closer and closer to the wall, sandwiching the car between two others on the outskirts of Jiufen, a small, compact mountain town an hour northeast of Taipei.
A mining settlement that blossomed during World War II, Jiufen came to life not unlike the gold rush towns in the United States. Originally a Wild West of settlers digging for precious metal in the mountains, it eventually became a city, albeit one that was based on an ephemeral economy. When the gold ran out and the Japanese were defeated, it became a mountain highland backwater—until it found tourism.
Now Jiufen’s main livelihood was catering to people from around the world who wanted to traverse the so-called Old Street, a market spanning a narrow maze of alleys that used to be the heart of the town. And still was, because it was the primary reason tourists came to visit.
Why Fly Boy was here was a mystery.
The day before, Paul had sat outside of the office building next to the presidential palace for five hours, not wanting to leave the one anchor he had to what he was convinced was a growing conspiracy, and his waiting had paid off.
The man he’d followed from the temple had finally exited, now wearing the uniform of a colonel in the Republic of China Air Force, which explained why his suit earlier didn’t fit well on his body. He wasn’t used to wearing one.
Paul had been shocked at the sight, straining his eyes through a set of small binoculars to ensure he wasn’t wrong. But he hadn’t been. It was the same man who’d met the Snow Leopard. He could not be an agent of China. The rigors of a background investigation for his position were just too hard to overcome. The Snow Leopard an agent of China? Yeah, sure. He was a crime lord. An Air Force colonel? No way.
Right?
Paul had taken some long-range photos, hoping to get the man’s nametag in one of them, then followed the officer to his car, tracking him to a nice little house in the hills on the outskirts of New Taipei. He’d waited for the man to settle in for the night, and then had approached the car, affixing a small GPS beacon to it.
He’d then set up stationary surveillance outside the neighborhood, waiting yet again. In between, he’d used his remote cloud access to the cutout only he and Charlie Chan knew about, dumping the photos and everything he knew about the man for Charlie to identify. Charlie would wash it of Paul’s fingerprints, determine the identity, then use a digital drop box to report back to Paul.
The following morning the GPS had alerted that it was moving, and Paul had positioned himself to see the car exit, to ensure his target was inside. Fly Boy had driven by him, now wearing a short-sleeved civilian shirt. Paul followed the GPS trace to Jiufen, staying close but not right behind Fly Boy’s vehicle, and had watched the target park, then begin walking up the hill toward the center of town. Paul did not want to believe that he was watching a traitor in action. There had to be some other explanation—perhaps even that the colonel was running his own operation against the Snow Leopard.
At least that’s what he hoped.
Paul illegally parked his own car down the street and raced to catch up, running up the avenue next to the mountain, passing by an ornate temple and entering the cloistered concrete buildings of the town. He saw Fly Boy walking toward the Old Street, a small knapsack over his shoulder, and fell in behind him, keeping a crowd of tourists between him and the target.
Fly Boy entered the narrow walls of the street, the crowd swallowing him, and Paul moved forward to keep him in sight. The market itself was more like a tunnel, with food shops, trinket stores, youth hostels, and teahouses. It was a mass of humanity, with people eating samples and tourists from all over the world taking pictures.
The lane was so narrow that two men with their arms outstretched could touch either side, the crowds constantly interrupted by minibikes transporting supplies. It was chaotic and claustrophobic, and the worst place for a singleton surveillance effort, but Paul had no other choice.
He kept Fly Boy in sight, threading through the crowds, wondering if the man was simply out shopping. He saw his target dip into a souvenir shop that sold ceramic figurines and walked by, glancing as he did so. Fly Boy was meeting with a man whose face was covered in tattoos. Not a tourist. In fact, not a normal civilian. He looked like a killer, and his tattoos marked him as a Triad member.
They exited, now behind Paul but walking in the same direction. Paul ducked left, going into a noodle shop to let them pass. Once they were gone, he reentered the flow of traffic, staying far enough behind them to remain clean. They took a turn down a narrow stairwell that dropped down to a plaza clogged with people, walking toward a large building ringed with red lanterns. Paul recognized it as the Amei Teahouse, one of the oldest continually operating businesses in Jiufen.
A three-story structure made mostly of wood, it towered over the square of the town of Jiufen like a grand old lady, regally distinct against the drab concrete buildings to the left and right. Paul looked for a way to enter without being seen and saw a lower level with a small footpath. He went down it and was immediately confronted by a busboy, who said the entrance was above.
Paul held up his camera and said, “I just want some pictures.”
The busboy left, and Paul snaked his way underneath the restaurant, threading through the kitchen and cleaning areas, the staff doing nothing more than looking at him oddly. He stumbled into the hallway that led to the bathrooms, saw a stairwell going up, and took it, walking slowly.
He reached the top, peeked around the corner, and saw Fly Boy sitting with the Snow Leopard at a large table, the tattooed man now absent. Around him sat a ring of young men, ranging in age from eighteen to twenty-five. All in rapt attention. The Snow Leopard said something, and Fly Boy opened his knapsack, passing out sheets of paper. They eagerly took them. One of the kids asked something, and the Snow Leopard reached underneath the table, pulling out bundles of cash. He looked left and right, then spread them out like he was fanning a deck of cards. He said something, and the kids nodded, quickly stuffing the cash into their pockets. He said something else, and they laughed. Through it all, the colonel sat silently, taking it in.